


Fading Memories

by MagicaLyss



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:25:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17555939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaLyss/pseuds/MagicaLyss
Summary: Peter misses his mom.Tony wants to help.





	Fading Memories

**Author's Note:**

> TW for Major Character Death sort of  
> Peter's Mom is dead

Peter is known at school for remembering things. 

He always remembers dates and homework and facts and memories. 

He remembered Ned's cousin's dog's birthday somehow. 

He remembers that it was partly cloudy with a cool breeze on his 11th birthday when he went out for dinner with his aunt and uncle. 

He remembers the day he met Ned down to what he ate for breakfast that day. 

He remembers all of the American presidents by year and alphabetically. 

He remembers all of the European countries and capitals alphabetically and by size. 

He remembers all of the elements on the periodic table in order and by mass. 

But somehow, in his too big brain, he can't remember his mom or his dad. It's all just gone. Just murky nothingness when it comes to his own family. 

Obviously, he can remember Aunt May's birthday and he can remember the date they died. But he can't remember what they looked like or anything they had done together or who they were. 

He can remember the smell of pancakes on early Sunday mornings. But he can't remember running down the stairs and meeting his mom in the kitchen. 

He remembers trying his dad's bitter black coffee and hating it. But he can't remember his dad drinking the coffee while reading the news in the morning, or chugging it for a long night in the office. 

He remembers the excitement of getting home from school to see his mom and getting to eat a snack and work on his homework with his dad. But he can't remember seeing his mom when he got home or his dad teaching him how to do algebra in kindergarten. 

He can't remember if his mom had curly brown hair like he does or if she looked different. He can't remember if his mom liked cookies or if she would make him eat his vegetables. He can't remember the day they dropped him off at his Aunt and Uncle's apartment or saying goodbye to them. He can't remember saying goodbye to his own parents. 

He can't remember his mom's smile. 

And fuck does it ever hurt. 

He doesn't want to ask. 

He doesn't want to bring it up to May and make her sad. He knows it'll make her sad to ask for pictures of his forgotten mom. He can't. He knows it won't help anyway. 

So he wanders off to school, mind far far away, wondering what would have happened if his parents had just not gotten on that plane. 

The first thing he'd have done is made his mom a mother's day card. He remembers those days back in elementary school. The teacher's hadn't realized, maybe they hadn't been told about his parents' accident. They'd get mad when he told them he couldn't do the project. 

They always asked why he didn't just make a card for Aunt May instead. He never had the heart to admit that she didn't want to be seen as his mom. There had been a couple of incidents where Peter had called her mom, and she had to explain that she was Aunt not Mom. The message was always clear. Not your mom. Just your caregiver. 

He'd make the cards, address them to May, and throw them out on the way home.

Ned's been looking at him funny all day. Probably because he can't bring himself to respond to half the questions that have been thrown at him. Ned tried to act normal but has more or less given up now. 

The lunch table is silent so Peter puts his head in arms, everything blurring around him. 

He wishes he could call his mom. He wonders if she has one of those soft voices like Aunt May had when he was 7 and he cried for his mom or if she has a strong voice like MJ's or Pepper's. Probably the latter, but he's hoping it would be soft and compassionate. 

He wonders if his mom loved him. 

He can't remember ever hearing his mom saying she loved him. Peter's sure she must've, but he's no longer sure. He doesn't even remember the colour of her eyes, how is he to know if she really loved him. 

He hears the bell ring, but it doesn't register that it's the signal for him to toss on another fake smile and to continue his day until he can talk to Karen on a rooftop somewhere. 

Somewhere, far away, he hears Ned calling his name, but nothing registers. The sleeve of his hoodie shifts, but he can't make himself care. 

He wonders if his mom would read him bedtime stories. He wonders if his mom was a genius. He wonders if his mom and Mister Stark would get along. 

A hand tugs on his sleeve again, and he mumbles something incoherently about skipping. 

He can practically feel Ned's eyes burning holes through the hood of his old hoodie, and everything's starting to feel overwhelming. 

He sighs heavily and drags himself to unwilling feet. He nods, too many times, in Ned's direction as his friend grabs his elbow and tugs him to homeroom. 

*

He doesn't have to think. He just switches into auto-pilot as he changes into his suit and starts patrol early that afternoon. Ned wanted him to go over to his house so Ned could keep an eye on his zombie-like friend, but Peter lied and promised he was alright. 

He zones out again and finds himself lost. He doesn't recognize the surrounding buildings and streets, but couldn't care less as he slumps down on the roof of a complex.

"Karen?" he murmurs, voice rough from lack of use.

"Yes, Peter?" She somehow sounds relieved. Through the mess of his mind, he wonders if maybe that's what his mom sounded like, a little robotic but caring and empathetic nonetheless. 

"Do you know my mom?" He knows it's a dumb question, but he's just so  _tired_.

"Aunt May?"

"No. Mary. Mary Parker. She isn't around anymore," he says, allowing himself to lie down despite the dirt covering the surface. He's sure Mister Stark won't mind having to clean the suit again, at least it's not bloody. 

"Oh. I'm sorry for your loss."

Peter can't find it in him to respond, wanting to fall apart. 

His mind is such a mess, vines of thought curling through every surface, too much to grasp at a single thing. Just a mess. Like he is. 

He wonders if he really loved his mom. He was young and didn't know love when he knew his mom. He wishes he could tell her that he loves her, one more time.

"Incoming call from Mister Stark," Karen says, snapping him out of his empty thoughts. 

"Where the hell are you? May's been calling me because apparently she isn't even going through to your phone, and you never told her where you were going. Your friend said that you were really out of it all day, and now you've just gone and disappeared?! You better not be injured," Tony scolds. 

Peter sighs again. He wishes he were injured. Wishes he had some sort of excuse for his odd behaviour and sadness. 

"Kid?" Tony repeats, bringing the kid back to reality. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, unconvincingly. "Karen? Where am I? Quickest route home?"

"You're across the street from the Brooklyn Children's Museum. ETA of an hour and a half. It's currently 11 pm," she informs, making the kid frown. He hadn't realized it had been that long since school. He was sure he had left maybe an hour ago, not like 6 hours ago. 

"Brooklyn? What the hell are you doing in Brooklyn?" Tony demands, sounding angry. 

"Sorry," Peter shrugs, not caring. How can he care when all he's thinking about is whether or not his mom loved him?

"You better get your ass home. May's worried sick. Call me in the morning."

Peter's mind floats away from his body as he starts swinging home again. He's tired. So fucking tired. 

He starts trying to sort through his mess of a brain, wishing there were roses in there instead of just the creeping, thorny stems. 

He remembers the day the police officers showed up after about a week with his Aunt and Uncle. He remembers being scared. Police were never really a good sign in his head. 

He was 4, almost 5 years old. He hid behind his Uncle's legs and listened to the man and woman who explained to the adults about the plane crash. He didn't understand what any of it meant. He didn't get it. His parents wouldn't just leave him. That doesn't make sense. Kid's aren't left alone. That's not how it works. 

He was young and naive and confused. His Aunt and Uncle sat him down on the couch, dabbing away their own tears and told him very simply that he was going to be staying with them as a forever thing. This just made him more confused. That made no sense because of course, his parents were coming back because they promised. And you don't break promises. 

He remembers crying. Not because he was sad, but because he was supposed to. He didn't understand what that was supposed to mean. He figured maybe their vacation was just going to be longer than expected. 

But then the days were passing too fast and then it had been a month and that made no sense. They weren't supposed to be gone for that long, he was sure. 

He cried because they had broken their promise. He didn't understand that they didn't have a choice. 

Before he knows it, he's knocking on the apartment door. Changed back in civilian wear. 

"Where the hell have you been, Peter?! You can't just disappear without telling me! Do you have any idea- Are you okay, sweetie? Is something wrong?" she asks, eyes searching his tired, pained face. The last time she had seen him like this, it was when he had lost the suit. 

He can't seem to find his voice through the thicket of his mind, he's wondering if he gets too lost in this mess, he might forget to keep his heart beating. He'll be too lost in his mind to tell his organs to work. 

He nods. He nods because there's nothing else he can do. There's nothing he can do with all of this pain weighing him down all the time. 

May somehow seems to understand and she brings him into her arms, hugging him tightly. 

And he breaks.

He can't help but wonder if he got hugged by his mom. If he got hugged by her and if they were good hugs. If she was short or tall or strong or soft. If she picked him up when she hugged him or if she'd bend down to his height. If she smelled like cookies or pancakes or old books or wood or perfume. If she was warm. 

He sobs into May's shoulder, hugging her with as much force as he can conjure through his exhaustion, trying to piece himself back together as he cries his heart out into the crook of her neck. But she's not his mom and that makes it hurt a million times worse. He doesn't have a mom. Never will. 

May whispers things to him to try to calm him down, at a loss for what could possibly be wrong. He seemed to have been having a good week, and now this? 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Peter whimpers, pulling his body closer to his Aunt's desperate to try to piece his heart back together, one that he hadn't even realized how long it had been broken for.

He feels small, so small, curled up in May's arms, as though he's that little boy who cried for his mom to come back because she wasn't supposed to break the promise that she would be back. The little kid who cried in her arms because it wasn't fair that all the other kid's had a mom and a dad and he didn't. Cried because someone else had 2 moms, and he had none. 

Even as the tears cease to pour, the sniffling and the pain never ends. 

May tucks him into his bed, kissing his forehead, and running her fingers through his hair a few times more than necessary. She says that she's always there to talk if he needs anything, and he nods again, leaving his empty eyes to stare lifelessly at the ceiling. 

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he's sure it was late. He doesn't remember his alarm sounding and hitting snooze so hard it broke. 

The first thing he is conscious enough to remember is his phone ringing. 

And in his dazed, wishful thinking, he hopes it's his mom. Calling to apologize for being gone so long and coming back. He isn't sure if he'd really recognize her voice though. 

He lets it ring for 4 separate calls before he finally answers. 

"Hey, kid. May said you weren't feeling well? Skipping school? Do you wanna come by the tower for your sick day?" It's Tony.

Peter smiles tiredly at that. Of course, it's Tony. He tries to ignore the disappointment. It's not going to be his mom. It's  _never_ going to be his mom. 

"Pete?" Tony repeats. 

Peter wants to cry again. He's not sure what day of the week it is or when the last time he drank water was, but it's been a while. He doesn't think he has the hydration to cry again. Everything hurts and his head is spinning with the mess of his thoughts. 

"'M fine," he finally says, voice thick and so obviously not okay. Nothing's okay. 

"Are you sure? Physical or mental?"

Tony knows about the nightmares and the pain from homecoming and the vulture Peter had gone through. He knows how tough it was for the kid to go back to normal. 

There's a long pause. Too long of a pause as Peter fights his way back to reality through his crowded yet empty mind. 

When he does, he's too tired to make sense of anything, so he blurts the first thing he can grasp. 

"Did your mom love you?" 

Tony's quiet and Peter wants to take it back the moment it left his mouth, but it's too hard to get his mouth moving, so he just tries to focus on not hyperventilating to death. 

Finally, he responds, "I believe she did, yeah. I mean I wasn't the best kid, so I imagine she did sometimes hate me, but I also think, deep down, she always, always loved me. What's this about, kid?"

Peter can't think straight anymore. So tired and empty and he can't think and everything's spinning and he can't breathe and he thinks his hands are shaking but he can't really tell. He wants to cry, but he can't. He can't cry after it's been so many years since his mom. Everything hurts. 

"'M tired," Peter finally sniffles, and Tony somehow seems to understand that it's not the casual tired of having stayed up too late but the sort of tired that you feel in your heart and your soul and your mind. The sort of tired that has nothing to do with sleep. No amount of sleep could cure this tiredness. 

"What's wrong, Pete? You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" Tony says, voice gentle and reassuring. 

Peter can't help but wonder if his mom asked him that after a particularly hard day of kindergarten where a kid stole the cookie in his lunch that his mom made. But he can't remember. He can't remember his own mom, and it hurts so bad. 

His face scrunches up in pain and he rolls over on his bed, pulling his legs from his tangled sheets. There's no way he's convincing himself out of bed, but he feels like he's burning alive. 

"Kid?" Tony repeats patiently.

"'M sorry," he cries, tears welling up in his eyes as he pulls his knees up to his chest and pulls his pillow closer to him.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, kid. Do you want me to come by? I can make you some lunch and we can watch some movies. You don't have to talk, but I'm here if you do." It's more compassion than Tony normally shares, and it pushes Peter closer to tears, but it's nice. It helps.

Peter knows he's been acting off for a while now, all these thoughts have been bugging him for weeks. Flash had said some things and now he's so deep in these vines of thought because of it. Peter had been consistently brushing off Tony's requests for him to come to the tower and ignoring phone calls because he figured it would pass over. 

But now, he's worried this might plague him for the rest of his life. 

"Peter?" Tony says, and Peter's starting to worry that Tony will get annoyed at his unresponsiveness. 

"'M sorry," he repeats, curling into himself tighter and clutching the phone like a lifeline. 

"I'm on my way over, kiddo, okay? Hang in there." Tony doesn't bother waiting for a response before hanging up. 

Before Peter can really react, there's knocking on the front door. He knows he has to go open it or at least call out that it's open, but there's so little will in him that he just glares angrily at the floor as though it'll open up and swallow him. 

His phone rings and it takes a little bit of convincing, but he answers it, holding it up to his ear gingerly. 

"I'm at the door, kid. It's locked. You wanna come open it up for me? I don't want to break it down unless I really have to." It's followed by a nervous laugh.

Peter hums absentmindedly, not really realizing that means actual effort on his side. 

"Kid?" Tony echoes, just as gentle and patient as ever. 

He sighs heavily in return and tumbles out of bed, leaving his phone behind. 

Peter opens the door and doesn't bother saying anything before turning back and collapsing on the couch, curling himself back up in a ball, pulling his hood over his head.

Tony makes himself at home, making some soup and hot chocolate for the kid and then putting on a movie. None of it registers as Peter forces his mind to watch the TV. He figures he might as well, as long as it takes him away from him ever-present thoughts. 

Peter can't stop his whirlwind of wonders, all connecting back to his mom, especially as the main character gets into a fight with his mom. 

He's blurting out the words before he can stop himself. "Do you think my mom loved me?"

Tony's eyes turn into saucers as he fumbles to mute the TV, looking almost scared. 

"Um, yeah, I'm sure she did, kid. Are you okay?" His eyes search the kid's face and the tears come back too easily, flooding down his face as he struggles for an answer. 

"You're not supposed to break promises, Mister Stark. I didn't think you were supposed to break promises," Peter cry, hiding his face in his sweater paws.

"You're not supposed to, kid..."

"But she did!" he whimpers, choking back sobs. 

"Who did?"

"My Mom. She promised me she'd be back. She promised me she'd come back for me. But she broke it. She never came back and now I can't remember her. I can't remember her hugs or her smile or her eyes or her smell. I can't remember anything. And I was so sad on Mother's Day when I was little and I didn't get a mom or a dad and then Uncle Ben and it's not fair," he sobs, curling up into himself as he cries. 

Tony's arm immediately is wrapping around Peter's shaking shoulders and bringing the kid into his warm chest, giving him the warmth and comfort he desired. 

"I know it's not fair, kid. I know. Trust me. I was a lot older than you when I lost my parents, but it was still really fucking hard and sometimes I forget what my mom smelled like too. My dad was easy. It was always oil and metal and gross cologne. My mom smelled like perfume a lot. Expensive kinds... I know it sucks, kid, but you're not alone. You've still got Aunt May and there's no way in hell she's going anywhere. And you sure as hell got me whether or not you want it. You're not going through this alone. You don't need to lock yourself up and shut us both out. We're not your parents, but we love you like we are," Tony murmurs, feeling proud of himself for being able to open up and be emotional like this for once. 

"Can we visit their graves?" Peter whispers, clutching onto Tony like a lifeline, though feeling a million times better knowing he's not by himself.

"Of course, kid, of course. Tomorrow?"

Peter nods and buries his face further into Tony's shirt, finding safety in the strong, steady beat of his heart. He knows he doesn't have a mom, but he's got Tony and he's sure that's close enough, especially as Tony kisses his head softly as he drifts off to sleep again.

 


End file.
